


Ternion: [H i m | 유유웃]

by Otherwise_Uncolonized



Series: Ternion  [유웃유] [3]
Category: Disney - All Media Types, Frozen (2013), Sneedronningen | The Snow Queen - Hans Christian Andersen, Tangled (2010), The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996), The Princess and the Frog (2009)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Accidental Bonding, Accidental Relationship, Advice, Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Attraction, Bad Parenting, Banter, Broadway, Canon Het Relationship, Captivity, Child Neglect, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Comedy, Community: rarepair100, Crack Pairing Celebration 2016, Crack Relationships, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Declarations Of Love, Demiromantic Elsa, Demisexuality, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Developing Relationship, Disney Multiverse, Drama, Dream Sex, Elsa Has Issues, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Infidelity, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Exposition, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Loss, Fantasizing, Fluff, Frozen (2013) References, Healing, Humor, Inspiration, Introspection, Jealousy, Just Married, Let It Go (Frozen Song), Love Confessions, Love Triangles, Lust, Lust at First Sight, Major Illness, Male Gaze, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Mild Sexual Content, Money, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Beta Read, OT3, Older Man/Younger Woman, One-Sided Attraction, Opposites Attract, POV Male Character, Panromantic Rapunzel, Pansexual Character, Polyamory, Pre-OT3, Pre-Threesome, Rapunzel Elements, Rare Pair Month, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships, Regret, Relationship Problems, Reminiscing, Romance, Running Away, Sad, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Sexual Humor, Sick Character, Small Fandom Big Bang, Snow Queen Elements, Tangled (2010) References, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Texting, Tragedy, Trouble In Paradise, Trust, Unconventional Format, Unconventional Relationship, Undecided Relationship(s), Unpopular Pairing July, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherwise_Uncolonized/pseuds/Otherwise_Uncolonized
Summary: ¸.·´¯`·.´¯`·.¸유웃유¸.·´¯`·.´¯`·.¸


("Ternion" in Eugene's POV)


After his "Rapunzel" musical fizzled out of theaters, he went looking for an actress to fill the icicle heels of his "Snow Queen" for an Off-Broadway comeback. What he wasn't looking for was an off-stage love triangle to turn his married life upside down. 


Being able to love two different people to the same degree was definitely against what was socially acceptable, but anthropologically, it probably made more sense.





	1. Act I: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chrysalisdreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysalisdreams/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AO3 posted the draft version of this at least three times without my consent (I distinctly clicked "save without posting"), so I apologize if those mistakes showed up in your inbox.

* * *

**[유유 | 웃]**

.

.

**[ one /: "u s" ]**

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Only two years after he was born on the floor of a hotel room, folks always took it upon themselves to ask him,  _"What do you want to be when you grow up?"_  to make sure that he knew his parents were failures.  
  
And he'd say, _"I wanna be big ― and I wanna be rich,"_  to make sure that they knew he'd never be his parents.

Back then, he thought his words were interchangeable with, "Broadway." Of course, he didn't just want to be  _on_  Broadway; he wanted to  _be_  Broadway. His hotel slept across the street from a theatre, so he made it a ritual to leave his lonely bed and sit in front of the marquees with his teddy bear if he couldn't sneak into the wonderland behind the glass doors. He married the flashy lights, the royal architecture, the swashbuckling actor ads, and every sparkly poster of pageant-perfect actresses in the chapel of his brain. Singing was something he could do without, but he loved the vibrancy of the performers, the endless  _drama_  and  _flair_  that they portrayed, the world of happily ever afters.

As far as galaxies went, Broadway was the solar system of his universe. Kid Eugene would prance back to the hotel well into the wees hours to gloat to every janitor in sight that his mother was [Satine and his father was Christian from Moulin Rouge](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moulin_Rouge!), not some homeless woman with cancer and a married banker with satyriasis. This was why they never had time for him, he bragged; they were actors actually  _doing_ something with their lives. On Thanksgiving, his mother overdosed in bed while he was asleep. Social services took him away from his universe and her foaming face, but ― at the very least ― not his dream. Loneliness and low self esteem parented him after that point, grooming his aloof nature and bad habits, yet he remained adventurous throughout, forever keeping his carefree head in the clouds to stop the real world's sewage from polluting his dreams. 

One foster care summer ― the summer before he legally changed his name to a Broadway swashbuckler's ― was spent assisting a director who told him, "the stories that should be told happen backstage, not on it." He didn't know what that meant. His star-power as a Broadway actor soon fizzled out with a puff of smoke left behind him. He's had more success as a children's author, less as a theatre director, and hopes to gain a smidgen as a playwright/director, which is typically unheard of. Musicals didn't become his "thing" until he met  **her**...

_"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!"_

Musical numbers.

He isn't crazy about them, but she likes them. He doesn't totally understand why she likes them, but if they light her up, then that's all he cares about. When he looks over and sees her grinning face lit up by the television screen, he knows for certain that this face is all he needs. She was in "outpatient care" when he first saw that expression on his visits, a reading activity he used to do for orphans with cancer after he got some fame. The publicist promised stuff like that would keep him in the tabloids, but it didn't.

He'd only find out a week later that the "caretaker mother" had lied in her daughter's birthday ad. The girl she called _"Flower"_ didn't have leukemia or some clinical sensitivity to sunlight; she was confined to their home because she was made to fear how the "cruel and monstrous" public would receive her alopecia. He smuggled her out of that psychologically abusive universe with a hat and a suitcase, _stole her_ , you might say, and inserted her into his. Manhattan is a blur to her, as are his aspirations, but she hasn't lost her footing. What she has yet to gain is her confidence.

The perpetual thinning of her hair makes her sad on many lonely weekends, so he's tried to create a safe enough haven where, on a good day, she can bounce around the condo singing the songs of his moneymakers, particularly every score from,  _"The Tangled Tales of Rapunzel."_  Each segment has been custom-made to serve as a self-surrogate for her.

 _Rapunzel_ , the sunflower girl.

 _Rapunzel_ , the frying pan warrior.

 _Rapunzel_ , the lost princess.

And she wants to believe that she's a lost princess. That the prickly hair on her head only sheds to make room for a diamond tiara and sunshine strands instead.

It became a harmless term of endearment, at first ― to call her _Rapunzel_ ; to nickname her _Blondie_ ― because at least it took her mind off her sob story.

...But she's grown used to answering to "Rapunzel" until she prefers it. She legally switched to "Rapunzel" until they were now princess and swashbuckler; _"Rapunzel"_ and _"Flynnigan Rider."_ The oxymoron was that she always called him by his birth name. They, on the other hand, only knew hers to be _"Flower."_

In order to deal with the alopecia, she sowed in a blonde lacefront wig after their fourth week in Manhattan. He had married her in less than a year to legitimatize his guardianship of her new life, so he didn't know just how deep her mother's conditioning went. Everyday he told her that she looked fine without the long wig, that she needn't try to be society's stereotypical blonde, or some gorgeous conventional beauty, which her witch of a caretaker used to pit her against. He still felt his manhood betray him when the occasional _Victoria Secret_ commercial aired, but her alopecia humbled him. Relaxed his high maintenance standards; demolished his sexism; made him appreciate imperfections as unique, lovable traits.

Because he loves her buck teeth.

He loves her brunette hair _(no matter how stubby)_.

He loves her chickenpox freckles.

He loves her button nose.

He loves her even though she didn't know what to love about herself yet.

And it helps that she **knew**. She knew what it was to feel like "you" weren't enough.

But he needs her to find out that she _was_ enough.

...And maybe he needs to follow suit.

.

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**[ two /: "h i m" ]**

.

.

"If you use my play, then I get to be the caster _and_ the maestro."

"Of the direction? I can hardly concur. This is an independent theater, Flynn Rider ― not some company-owned coliseum where Weselton will pull all of the financial weight. You can multi-task for free, if you feel so _inclined_ , but theater production has never been done that way."

"Well, I believe in stuff enough to where I'm gonna make it happen regardless."

"You haven't returned to any stage work since that Rapunzel musical, and it didn't do your bank account any billion dollar favors, now did it? A playwright is only as good as his last work."

"So it was a minor setback; it happens! My books have been doing _great_ ―"

"I've yet to see any recent material on the best seller list. Your published little Snow Queen fanfiction has done well enough to keep you in Manhattan, but we'd have to change the design your wife drew for the queen if you want that adaptation on stage. Black hair on an ice witch would never appeal to the masses―"

"They'll never see it coming."

"Don't be snide."

"Alright, look...this is what I was thinking. I can step aside and let Quasi do what he needs to do with the costume design, but I'm going to give him something to work with ― just a little something for reference."

"Is it going to be from your wife?"

"Is~ that going to be a problem?"

"Is she a professional artist?"

"She was _born_ a professional, Frollo."

"Then there's just one more thing."

"I'm open to any and all suggestions."

A pen was uncapped. "It'll be a woman."

He watched him write the name on a yellow sticky note. "For...?"

"Physical inspiration."

"...You _do_ realize that I'm...mmm- _mar-_ ried, right...?"

"You and your philanderer-like assumptions..." Frollo cleaned his glasses with his handkerchief. "Mr. Rider, _wolves_ are monogamous mammals, not dogs." The note was handed to him. "Though she is merely a Broadway standby who wanted her hands in costume designing once. It's of my high opinion that she will appeal to you based on what I read in your...little _fanfiction._

In what way she will appeal to you is for you to decide. Simply be a gentleman, if that is within your _capacity_ , and approach her work respectfully. Do not compliment her beauty, do not comment on her childhood, and do not comment on her _gluteus maximus_. Comment on her work."

"I'll do my best." Looking at him sarcastically, Eugene pouted down at the cursive letters between his fingers. "Elsa Løvland..." He looked up at Frollo. "So she's one of your latest obsessions, I'm guessing?"

.

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**[ three /: "u s" ]**

.

.

Rapunzel sat at their dinner table with her knees against her chest as she doodled the _Snow Queen_ devoutly. Between the icicle crown and the cherubic dresses, nothing tickled his fancy. He had written a certain image for her ― a modern, sexy, [Grace Kelly](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/15/bb/8b/15bb8b21d8e5e5e6d1e518cd5e3d2063.jpg) image for her ― that didn't fit the pixie-cute pieces scattered across the table. He considered googling this Løvland, which he did with much guilt, but the internet cut off right after he'd finished typing.

Bed time was a little more insomniac-laden than usual. His wife tried to comfort him by laying her head on his chest, and he, in response, put his chin on her wig-free scalp, but his mind wasn't on the warmth of her body.

It would be great to say that love was enough in life. How all he needed this whole time was love, not money. But love doesn't pay the gas bill or stop you from arguing about who pays it. Money does. And it was getting harder and harder to financially carry two people; one who knows money well, but overspends it, and one who contributes what she can, but doesn't know money at all...

.

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**[ four /: "h e r" ]**

.

.

He grabbed Løvland's number from Frollo the next morning, phoned her up in the bathroom, and put the cellphone on his shoulder while he waited for her to answer. He felt bad about doing this behind his wife's back, but it wasn't like he was _cheating_ behind her back, so he could take it to the grave. With that said, Elsa Løvland absolutely refused to pick up her cell, so he left her a sixty-second voicemail about Frollo, the Snow Queen crusade, and his certified credentials to prove his harmlessness. Two shaves later, she dialed back.

The small, _"Hello?"_ on the other end totally threw him off. The New Yorkers he knew didn't sound that soft-spoken or timidly guarded, but she did have a trace of that familiar "talking through your nose" alto.

"Hi ――― there~!" Eugene chimed as he juggled his shaver nervously. "Is this ― um, _ahem_ ― Is this Elsa Løvland, by any chance?"

He heard a _"tch"_ crackle into his ear. _"You left me a rather long-winded voicemail after calling me ten times while I was in the middle of my rehearsal, Mr. Rider, so I find it hard to believe that you don't know this is my number."_

 _'...What_ _―_ _a_ _―_ _cuddly human being.'_ He decided to give her frosty attitude a pass because, quite frankly, he should've known her theater hours, given his 'certified credentials.'

Luckily, she was quick to get straight to business. Somewhere between him raving about himself and his revolutionary vision, she confessed to having phoned back because she had been waiting for a modern retelling of her favorite childhood novel for a long time. He took that moment to explain his personal concept designs for the Snow Queen, which were far more focused on giving the witch a backstory than retelling the original, but her interest didn't totter. She agreed to jot down what he told her and flesh out the Snow Queen's visual personality in her spare time. The only catch was that the draft wouldn't be complete until next month.

Unfortunately, he had all the time in the world.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm chopping Eugene's Ternion POV up into parts because it became too long thanks to all the details. By the way, my Broadway knowledge isn't going to be totally accurate. (cough) I also don't live in NYC (nor have I ever been), so forgive me for not representing.


	2. Act II: Snow Queen

**[유]**

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**[ five /: "h e r" ]**

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.

He stroked Frollo for more information about his frosty designer over the following weeks of wine drinking, script planning, and lovemaking with his wife. Løvland was a Norwegian twenty-one year old from the city of Oslo; she had finished high school in the ninth grade, breezed through university, and prepped herself to chair her father's industrial firm. Art, design, and architecture were under her polished belt of expertise, but where theatre and dressmaking came in was a mystery. All Frollo knew was that her rich parents had been killed on her eighteenth birthday, and instead of heading her father's business, she's now living a dingier life in New York. Although Eugene could empathize with her harsh introduction to adulthood, he couldn't help but scoff at the stupidity of her elopement. If he was born into wealth, he wouldn't have taken the high (or rather, low) road.

On the day of the design's completion, he taxied to Løvland's neighborhood toward sunset after smooching his wife goodbye. Her location was on the decent side of the community, but it was clear from the car window that she wasn't making anywhere near Midtown Manhattan money. He whipped out his iPhone and texted her to let her know he was waiting for her outside:

Elsa Løvland  
  
Love the front lawn.

She didn't reply. Five minutes passed, and he was still left hanging. Muddled, he paid the driver with a roll of dough and stood on the block of her rowhouse with his hands stirring in his coat pockets. The agreement wasn't to enter her house, but it didn't look like he had any other choice. Before he could raise his fist to knock, the door whooshed open to reveal the back of an African American woman. She bumped his shoulder by accident in mid-turn, evidently not seeing him until they made impact.

"Oh! Sorry 'bout that, Hun," the beauty apologized as she pulled her arm into her coat sleeve. "Did I hurt you or anyth'n?"

"No! Nope, not at all," he downplayed his soreness between hoarse chuckles, nursing his tendons in the process. "I've got a shoulder made of steel!"

"Uh-oh," she tittered. "One of those, huh?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"A charmer." She crossed her arms and shook her head, smirking as she said: "Elsa'll have a _time_ with _you_ , Sug'..."

He felt the need to yap that he was a happily married man, (knowing exactly how much that meant nothing in the electromagnetic science of sexual attraction), but she interrupted him to introduce herself:

"I'm Tiana, Elsa's room mate." She held out her palm.

"Rider." He shook it warily.

"Nice to meet you." Tiana slipped her hand back between her folded arms and wiggled from the cold. "If you're look'n for Elsa, she's upstairs. Just go down the hall and make a turn on your left; you'll see the open door there. Make sure you knock on the wall first ― and tell 'er I'm the one who let you in, alright?

Also, do yourself a favor, Sug', and.. _.try_ to keep them charms of yours to yourself." Tiana craned forward to whisper, "She doesn't warm up all that well to menfolk like you."

"Fantastic. Thank you for validating that rather worrisome foreshadowing."

She laughed loudly, jogging down the porch steps to bade him adieu with a backwards wave. "You two have fun now~!"

"Well, aw'righty then!" He waved back mockingly. "We most certainly will!" _'...Not.'_ Despite how low his excitement levels had dropped, Eugene followed Tiana's map and crept inside the hallway of the upper story.

Before going any further, he knocked on the jamb of Elsa's alleged door frame without taking a peep inside her boudoir. "Ms. Løvland? It's ― it's, um...it's me, Flynn Rider. I, uh ― we sorta spoke a little bit on the phone a couple weeks back to schedule a "one on one" this Monday, but your lovely room mate just so happened to let me in, so...I hope you don't mind me dropping in at such an unprecedented time." He pressed a knuckle against his forehead and winced at his inability to make his "drop-in" less awkward, inappropriate, and unprofessional.

_'I should've just waited outside until she responded. Why didn't I just wait outside until she responded? ...Because I didn't want to be out on the street, that's why.'_

"Can you hold on for just one second?" her trembly voice replied after a long pause.

"Ahhh...sure! Jus'...take your _time._ " Eugene leaned his shoulder against the wall and scratched his throat. "I've got _all_ evening," he muttered derisively. At this rate, he was going to be late for Rapunzel's cooking.

The duration it took for Elsa to get ready left him with enough time to scroll through his own hashtag on Instagram and check Yahoo! Mail. "Ooh! Trouble in paradise featuring Brangelina. That should be a sensation."

"You can come in now."

Eugene slid his head past the door frame inch by inch to finally peek inside. He didn't expect to wow so loudly at the regal interior design of the space, but his "wow" escaped his diaphragm with a gasp.

Soft hues of blue and white warmed walls lined by marble sculptures, clay head busts, and hanging Elizabethan dresses in progress. The wire chandelier in the center of the ceiling glimmered with crystals.

The interior design was so romantic and regal, that he almost had a cardiac shock. Had he known he was coming to Queen Guinevere's palace, he would've brought his Excalibur. Eugene stepped forward to walk through the lotus land of art, passing by a stunningly beautiful clay castle that was still in the middle stages. ' _I'd lease that in a heartbeat.'_ Smiling tipsily, his smirk fell off his face when his head steered his eyes into the direction of the blonde woman by the window. _'Well, slap me silly...'_

The dark blue garment she wore was one of those sleeveless dresses with a cowlneck collar that showed her shoulder blades. Ornamenting the French braid between them was a garland of crystal snowflakes and diamond acanthuses.

 _'Oh my Lancelot...'_ He gulped at the chinaware gleam of her complexion, skimmed past the bend of her waist, and traveled down the thigh emerging from the slit of her short hem. The baluster curve of her calf led to the high heel caressing her foot, which turned at an angle to show the ball of her ankle. His vanity was tortuously tickled, and his mind dwelt drunkenly over the details of her fancy swagger. She didn't accost him because she was too busy hovering over a clay figurine, but her inattention gave his eyes the opportunity to save a screenshot of her wardrobe on his brain's hard drive.

"I apologize for the mess." Her chin moved to the words, sobering him up from his inebriation. The brush between her fingertips stopped whisking away the tool marks on her project to be set down on the table. "I didn't expect to start touching up an old friend." She wiped the brush on a handkerchief.

"To make matters worse, I'm actually supposed to be meeting with someone in an hour." The reluctant hostess stood up straight and rubbed the sides of her thighs before turning to face him with her hands folded in front of her crotch.

He saw her expression go from a mousy smile to a polite, confident one in mid-transition. Her makeup made her look like she had just returned from the set of a Revlon commercial.

 _'Frollo would pull a sadistic stunt like this.'_ In his personal life, he stayed away from genetic lottery winners like this. As the saying goes, "you can't ignore a gorgeous woman no more than a pedestrian can ignore a car accident," and she was the spitting image of the Victoria Secret models straddling the lingerie catalogs under his shoebox.

When she realized Eugene was staring at her like a lemur that had just seen a jaguar, Elsa came forward to extend her palm for a handshake. "It's nice to finally―"

"I'm married," he blurted out.

She blinked three times in a row.

"...Happily," he added in his frozen state.

The poor girl excused his nerves with grin that made him think she had a toothache. "And I'm...sure that you _are_ ," she said slowly.

He snapped out of his stupor and blinked at her, turning his eye at an angle. " _Wait,_ so...you're.. _.not..._ interested in me at all?" he asked it like he was almost offended.

Elsa scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him with a sardonic smile as she shook her head. "Why would I―..." Her wrinkled brow collapsed into a glower. She stepped back and rived her hand out of his palm, tucking it under her armpit as she crossed her arms. "Is that why you came all the way here?" Her angry tone shook. "To negotiate some kind of polyamorous settlement? Because a couple of Americans have tried that already―"

"Woah, woah, _woah_! Hold the phone!" Eugene got to flailing his hands and using sign language to defend his case. "No! No-ho!

That is not at _all_ what I had in mind. Not that I'd ― had anything in _mind_ , I'm just...not really _used_ to ladies _not_ falling head over heels for me at first ogle, so I was a little taken aback by your response. I mean, if I had a dime for every time an attractive women have tried to "frame" me, I would have absolutely no need to put this frosty show on the road, believe me," he tittered sheepishly near the closing of the sentence, but she wasn't laughing with him, so he bolted his mouth shut.

Elsa looked him up and down, still holding her elbows. Eventually, she loosened up in the neck and sighing from the stomach. "Well, you won't have to worry about any of that." She strutted across the room. "It takes a lot more than looks and charm to impress me."

"...So I've been told," Eugene mumbled under his breath. He begrudgingly followed her clacking heels to an adjustable drafting table. A squiggle of symbols and numbers that gave him nothing but headaches were written under the doodles sheeting it, but he looked at the artwork patiently while Elsa opened a drawer to find something. "I'm a little astounded that you even let me come here today; you're not afraid that I might put your address on Craigslist?"

She pulled her braid onto her shoulder after licking her thumb and flipping through her tablet. "I won't say I didn't think twice about it, but I won't be able to meet up with you on another Monday, so I figured I could make an exception. Besides...apart from other persuasive measures, I always have my taser close by." The drawl behind it was almost sinister.

"Good to know." How close by was what he didn't want to know, (but probably should). Eugene rubbed his nape and looked back at the sketches.

She didn't draw as well as his wife did. She had more of a seamstress sketcher's hand, in which the figures were faceless, hourglass women scribbled in the wispy style of filigree lines, yet there was a visual storyboard to the pieces. The first depicted a female standing in a green dress with black sleeves. The second displayed the same woman dancing in a blue body-con gown that exposed more of her skin. "Skaoi" was written under the former whereas "Snow Queen" titled the latter.

"I thought I could translate your vision better by illustrating two different dresses for the Snow Queen's wardrobe," Elsa explained behind him.

Eugene blinked over his shoulder to see her approaching him with a tablet in her hands. She placed it beside the body-con sketch to present a side-by-side comparison. Intrigued, he sat down on the stool she offered him, put his feet on the rungs, and pulled on his reading glasses to review the drawing. The lineart was a more complete version of the blue gown neighboring it. Unlike the rough draft, it sported off-the-shoulder sleeves, a high slit in the flimsy skirt, and a sequined sweetheart bodice on a snow blonde beauty with phoenix eyes.

She was dazzling, she was sexy, she was bold, and she was everything that would put his name back in the headlines. 

"Nice _work_ ," Eugene exclaimed. "She's absolutely breathtaking," he lauded.

"I'm glad you like it," she thanked quietly, smiling with her fingers twined in a rather regal clasp.

"Like it? I love it. How'd you put this fulgid ensemble together?"

"Well,"―the blonde bent over his shoulder to where he had to clear his throat and move his temple away from her bust―"I took some time out to read your fantasy novel so that I could incorporate her pathology into her carriage. Since your backstory focuses on her humanity before her kingdom's aversion to her powers turns her into a woman of ice, the first dress is meant to represent her repression." Elsa pointed the nib of her pen to its sleeves. "The sleeves, gloves, stockings, and bun help convey the message that she's deeply uncomfortable in her own skin. When she disappears into the mountains of Lapland,"―the pen migrated to the final dress―"she becomes her truest self, so the design I chose for her ice dress represents that freedom."

He gradually rolled his head up to her while she recapped the subliminal messages in his novel.

"By having her redesign her dress, she's showing that she's choosing to live by her own rules. I got the impression that she wasn't only letting go of her inhibitions, but unstitching herself from society's social constructs regarding what it meant to be a woman, which at that time meant you had to cover up." Her pen's cap circled the figure's mouth. "Using a red color for the lips, dark eye shadow on the lids, and rosy blush on the cheeks would bring out her blue dress in the winter background. A sculpted brow would echo her darker nature."

Once he got his saliva back, he said, "Wow...you ― really planned this out. I'm thoroughly impressed." Not that he was slightly sexist, but it wasn't often that beautiful women who invested as much into their fashion sense as she did bothered to develop such an introspective thought bubble.

In return, Elsa closed her eyes and expressed a smile that was both proud and sheepish before looking back at him. "Thank you."

"Oh no, thank _you,_ gorgeou"― _'Stop right there!'―_ "erm, Ms. Løvland. Just one thing, though," he added. "The, uh...the _hair_."

"The hair? ...What's wrong with it?"

"The fact that it's braided doesn't really bring the freedom point home for me. Perhaps the plan should be for the braid to be set free." His hands mimicked the motion of hair flowing down his shoulders. "I'm not inquiring you to revisit the drawing board, of course, because you've already done more than enough for free; I'm strictly asking for your creative opinion."

"It wouldn't hurt," Løvland prefigured, "but it may not complement the refined look of her dress."

"...Fair point," he compromised. He then glanced up at her hair with a sort of scientific interest. The labyrinth of winged cowlicks crowning her head had a style that was both unruly and refined. Very 1950's Grace Kelly. "What'd you call this little creation? This hairstyle you have going on here."

She patted her scalp insecurely. "I haven't coined it as anything. It's just a hairstyle."

"Would 'jou mind taking it down for a second? I just wanna see something."

Løvland hesitated, but proceeded to untwist the bottom of her braid with a little more coaxing. She rotated her body to glance at him while she unbraided the middle section, before facing forward again with a confused frown. The snowflake hairpins clattered on the table after she shook out her curls and combed them over her shoulder with her fingernails. Elsa's glossy beach waves sent a "freer" ― if not enchantingly "wilder"― vibe without clashing against the sophistication of her overall outfit, bringing her closer to what he envisioned for his snow goddess. The platinum blonde was now no longer a threat to his testosterone, but a piece of merchandise to model his moneymaker after.

"...Why're you grinning at me like that?"

" _Ab_ -solute perfection," he thought out loud, praising himself for his brilliant revelation.

"Excuse me?" She mistook it as him blatantly objectifying her.

"Mademoiselle,"―Eugene sang as he got up and snatched her drawings―"it has been _lovely_ meeting you for this little get-together this evening. I can assure you that your talents _won't_ be wasted!"


End file.
